


Hold the Door

by Hatteress (goddammitstacey), maichan808 (maichan)



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Purgatory, Team Human, Temporary Character Death, peter is an evil asshole, playing fast and loose with werewolf mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddammitstacey/pseuds/Hatteress, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maichan/pseuds/maichan808
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek is killed by a rival alpha, the pack will stop at nothing to get him back. Even if that means blackmailing the most dangerous hunter duo this side of hell. Whatever. That whole devil thing was probably totally exaggerated, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold the Door

**Author's Note:**

> This is pre-season 3 for Teen Wolf and post season 8 for Supernatural.
> 
> So, SO many thanks to my glorious artist [Maichan](http://maichan808.tumblr.com/) for putting up with me while I backflipped a bazillion times on ideas and submitted everything horrendously late. SHE IS THE WIND BENEATH MY REALLY, TREMENDOUSLY UNORGANISED WINGS.
> 
> Also her art. [_HER ART_](http://maichan808.tumblr.com/post/70764672678/artwork-for-hold-the-door-tw-spn-crossover-so).

[STORY TRAILER](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SwemUpKODRQ)

* * *

There isn't a whole lot of room in the hunting game for coincidence. Which is why, when woodland creatures start getting torn apart and the investigation leads them to night club security footage of a kid with funky reflective eyes, Dean's ready to get some use out of their stash of wolfsbane and be done with it.   
  
They have shit to be getting on with; shit that's not an open and shut werewolf case.  
  
“Look, kid,” Sam says. It’s the third time he’s tried the good cop routine and Dean can hear it wearing thin. Not that Dean blames him.   
  
The fact the cops picked boy-wonder up before they could get to him has made things tetchy. Because on top of being a royal pain in Dean's ass, their current job is _local_ –  the first bloody little bambi massacre found not three miles from the bunker's front doorstep. They're not known well enough in town yet that they can't pass for FBI agents and muscle an interrogation—speed up the expedition process a little—but it's a risk. A risk neither one of them has had to deal with before, living on four wheels for as long as they have. And for what?   
  
“We know you had nothing to do with the mutilations."  
  
Dean grits his teeth, because the shit of it is, they _do_. The footage that had led them to their current suspect had been taken the night of the latest furry bloodbath. Which means the kid rocking back in his chair and giving them a look flatter than Cas' sense of humour is not the werewolf they're looking for, no Jedi mind tricks needed. Dean had sworn long and loud.  
  
Sam folds his hands in front of him, like the harmless investigator he totally isn't. "But we also know you're not...travelling alone."  
  
The kid tips his head and sucks on his lips, the total absence of fucks glaringly obvious. Dean is both frustrated as hell and grudgingly impressed because they’ve dealt with  _demons_  less sassy than this.  
  
Sam sighs, and it's a nine point five on the exasperation scale. Dean's usually the only one who can register that high. “Just be straight with us.”  
  
For some reason, that’s  _hilarious_. The kid throws his head back and _cackles_ and it takes a second before Dean remembers where kid-snark's alibi footage had come from. The Cage – downtown's premier gay club. Oh  _man_.  
  
Dean snorts and meets Sam's bitch face with patented ‘what? it’s  _funny_ ’ shoulders. The kid, still grinning, watches them with eyes too sharp to go with the shock of bed-head he's sporting.   
  
“Trust me, dude,” the kid says, leaning forward and splaying his pale hands in front of him. _Look ma, no claws_. “I’m being as straight with you as _humanly_ possible.”  
  
The flash of gold is blink-and-you-miss-it but totally unmistakeable. Jesus Christ, Dean doesn't know if he wants to slap the kid upside the head or high-five him. You know you’ve been hunting for too long when you start rooting for your mark.  
  
“You’re driving a stolen car,” Sam says, shoulders bunching. “You’re carrying a fake ID. Every word out of your mouth so far has been  _bullshit-_ ”  
  
“Says the hunter posing as an FBI agent,” the kid says, and holy Jesus fuck.  
  
Dean knows better than to look at Sam. They may have strong-armed the interview but he's under no illusions that there aren't at least three cops behind the two-way mirror. The kid smirks, tapping a nonchalant beat on his water bottle and Dean doesn't know what to make of him anymore. What the hell kind of werewolf knowingly antagonises hunters?  
  
"You don't want to be on our bad side, kid," Dean says.  
  
The kid fixes him with a look, thumb tapping lightly over his own bottom lip. "But I'm there already, aren't I?"  
  
"It doesn't have to be that way," Sam says. Dean has to bite back a growl but Sam is right. There've been no human deaths. No reason for Dean to use the wolfsbane in the trunk of the impala. Grey areas are a dick.  
  
The kid tips his head, his expression far more serious than anything he's sported so far. "Good to know," he says, finally.  
  
Dean scowls, feeling suddenly like he's handed in a pop quiz he didn't know he was taking.  
  
Sam splays his hands. "So, work with us?"  
  
"Shoot," the kid says, rocking back on his chair like the moment of sudden seriousness had never happened.  
  
"What's your name?" Sam asks.  
  
"Stiles," the kid says. "Stiles Stilinski."

* * *

  
"Who the hell names their kid Stiles?" Dean says, sucking the last of his Oreo milkshake up with zeal. Sam can see his arteries clogging from here.  
  
"The sheriff of Beacon Hills, apparently," Sam says, spinning his laptop so that Dean can look over the record. Sam glances out the window, eyes ticking over the police station entrance. It's been half an hour since they left Stilinski to be processed out, he should be almost done.  
  
"Would you relax?" Dean says. "Deputy do-right said he'd let us know when the kid was leaving. He wants in with the FBI bad enough I think he'd sky write the damn message if he had to."  
  
Sam snorts, pulling his laptop back. "I think it's less the FBI he wants in on and more one of their agents."  
  
"No way," Dean says. "That's just-"  
  
Dean's phone goes off, vibrating slightly across the table and Dean snatches it up as Sam puts his laptop away.  
  
"Kid's out," Dean says, snapping the phone shut with more force than is strictly necessary.  
  
Sam grins, getting to his feet. "And?"  
  
Dean scowls. "And I've been asked to dinner."  
  
Sam laughs all the way out the door.

* * *

  
Stilinski is stupidly easy to tail. He sticks to brightly lit streets, keeps a uniform pace and barely glances back even when crossing intersections. Dean's almost freaking embarrassed on his behalf.  
  
They head down town, back towards the clubbing district and Dean's half worried that Stilinski's heading for a car, parked back where the cops had picked him up. He's about to suggest Sam go back for the Impala just in case when Stilinski veers around a corner into an alley, toeing it between a closed bar and what looks like an abandoned warehouse. Dean looks to Sam and nods, pulling his gun and thumbing off the safety as he glances around the corner. Down the alley, Stilinski's yanking a side door open, disappearing into the warehouse.  
  
Always fucking warehouses.  
  
Dean signals to Sam, doesn't even need to see the nod back before he's moving, taking point as they approach the rusted door.  
  
The rusted door that screeches like a goddamn banshee when Dean shoulders it open, god _dammit_. Sam throws Dean bitch eyebrows, which earns an eye roll in return. The hell does he want, Dean to write an angry letter to maintenance?   
  
Dean slips through the door, tread soft as he lets his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness.  
  
There's a light on in the foreman's office across the building and the distant echo of metal shifting in the wind. Other than that: nothing.  
  
Yeah...  
  
"Trap?" he says, not bothering to keep his voice down.  
  
Sam steps up beside him and nods. "Total trap."  
  
The door slamming shut behind them is like that elderly neighbour yelling "surprise!" after the whole party's been blown.  
  
It's an automatic thing to drop into a defensive stance, back to back with Sam as they raise their guns. Dean's eyes flick to the door as he covers the warehouse interior and yep, escape well and truly cut off. By a six foot slab of barrel-chested black dude, to boot. Peachy.  
  
"Good god," a woman's voice says. "I thought you said these guys were good?"  
  
Dean ticks his gun to the left, following the click of heels as a pretty redhead steps out into the light, Stilinski at her side.  
  
"They took down the Devil, Lydia," Stilinski says. He tips his head, frowning. "Apparently."  
  
Well, there goes the odds of them being underestimated then. "Always with the Lucifer thing," Dean says. "Sammy I think we've been typecast."  
  
Stilinski spreads his hands like he's a one-man comedy show. "Angels and devils and demons, oh my!"  
  
"You forgot werewolves," Dean says, pointedly aiming his gun at Stilinski's heart.  
  
Stinlinski flails ridiculously, flattening his hands to his own chest. "Me?" he says. "Nah, I'm not a werewolf."  
  
 _Bullshit_. "What are you then?"  
  
Stilinski grins. "I'm just a dude," he says. "With some really badass friends."  
  
There's a whistle and a thunk and it's only a lifetime of training that keeps Dean from jumping back. The arrow quivers in the wooden beam by his foot, steel tipped and vicious looking.  
  
"Guns down or the next one goes through your head," Stilinski says, cheerfully, like he's offering them tea and crackers.  
  
Dean shifts his grip, eyes flicking up to the rafters. "I think bullets trump arrows."  
  
Stilinski scoffs. "You haven't met our archer."  
  
Which…that's weird, right? Wolves using weapons? Dean certainly hasn't come across it before. He hesitates, can feel Sam tensing at his back. If they're going to make a break for it, they can't be subtle about it.  
  
The redhead—Lydia, Dean recalls—groans. "Oh come on," she says. "If we wanted to hurt you, you'd be hurting already."  
  
"And what's behind door number two, then?" Dean says, buying time as he shifts into Sam's weight at his back.  
  
"Us," Stilinski says, "asking you for help."  
  
The _hell_?  
  
"Help?" Sam says, over his shoulder. "Help with what?"  
  
Stilinski's face turns hard then. Hard and shuttered with something that isn't anger. Determination maybe; and something darker. "A friend of ours is dead," he says. "You're gonna help us get him back."

* * *

  
_For everything that had played moth to Beacon Hills' flame, Stiles had to admit, rival werewolf packs were the worst._  
  
 _The whole forrest was a mess of snarling and pained yelps, each sound blending into the next until Stiles couldn't pick his own pack apart from their rivals. Couldn't tell who was falling and who was winning._  
  
 _Oh god, he hoped they weren't falling._  
  
 _"Stiles!"_  
  
 _Stiles heaved himself the last few feet to the base of the tree, dragging his useless leg behind him and trying not to hiss as the gouges in his thigh seep through earth and leaf-litter. Jesus, if this was half what taking the bite was like Stiles owed Scott a drink._  
  
 _"He-here!" He said, groaning as he pressed down over the wounds. The beta who'd taken the swipe at him was long gone, tackled away by a viciously roaring Erica. Stiles was gonna owe her a drink too._  
  
 _"Shit, Stiles!"_  
  
 _Stiles looked up just in time to cop a face full of worried Derek. There was a gash over his left eye, blood all down the side of his face but it was nothing to the look of terror he was sporting as he manhandled Stiles' hand away from his leg to get a look at the damage._  
  
 _"I'm okay," Stiles grunted. "S'just a flesh wound."_  
  
 _Derek looked up at him incredulously. "Just a-" He stopped, snarling. "Stiles, what the hell were you-"_  
  
 _"Hey, I helped," Stiles protested, making a wounded noise when Derek replaced his hand and pushed- oh god, he was going to throw up and Derek was never going to let him live it down. "I trapped the Alpha didn't I?"_  
  
 _"You shouldn't be out here," Derek said. Just like he always did. Like Stiles would listen._  
  
 _"Fuck you," Stiles said, weakly. He meant it to come out harder than it did, but sometime after Stiles had realised his giant, terrifying crush on Derek, every swear had somehow turned freaking fond without his input._  
  
 _Derek stopped, eyes sharp and reflecting stupid,_  stupid  _colours, even in this light. "Stiles-"_  
  
 _"Hale!"_  
  
 _Oh_  shit _._  
  
 _Derek spun, hand dropping from Stiles as he crouched over him, snarling. O'Reilly snarled back, deep and challenging and very much no longer trapped in Stiles' ash circle. Fuck._  
  
 _"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to play with your food?" O'Reilly said._  
  
 _"Hey," Stiles protested. "Humans are friends, not food."_  
  
 _O'Reilly's brow dropped in confusion but Derek- oh yeah, that was totally a Stiles-you're-being-funny-in-a-very-grave-situation-stop-it lip curl. This was why Stiles loved him._  
  
 _Stiles stopped, couldn't help the way his heart thumped hard into a trip because he-_  
  
 _Derek pressed one hand back over Stiles chest, thumbed a reassurance right over where his heart was trying to murder him and it was like a brand – hot and very real. Oh god, this was real._  
  
 _O'Reilly snarled and leaped for them._

* * *

  
Stiles' thumb taps a rhythm over his heart as Allison uniformly disarms the Winchesters, passing guns and blades back to Lydia who's standing with her own gun cocked and ready. Sam and Dean may have stepped down, but none of them are taking any chances.  
  
The best hunters in the business, Allison's dad had called them. Apparently they'd gone up against werewolves and vampires, angels and demons, and always lived to tell the tale. Even if that meant coming back from the dead.  
  
Which is exactly what the pack needs right about now.  
  
Allison's just pulling out the rope when Stiles' phone rings. He nods at Boyd, handing over his own gun as he steps away to answer it. "Yo, Scotty."  
  
"Hey, how's things?"   
  
Scott sounds tired. Or worn. Worn is probably a better word. Holding Beacon Hills has taken a toll on all of them, but no one more than Scott. Taking on the responsibilities of an Alpha at nineteen, much less an Alpha without the status to back it up, has got to suck down to all seven levels of hell.  
  
"Plan's a go," Stiles says, watching Dean glaring at him as Allison ties him to a chair. "Your girlfriend's getting her bondage on."  
  
Scott chokes a little on the other end of the phone. "Stiles!"  
  
Stiles laughs as Allison shoots him a grin. "We're good," Stiles says. "We're just…negotiating now."  
  
"And that involves tying people up?" Scott says, skeptically.  
  
"We're being persuasive," Stiles says. And then, before Scott can start preaching about fairness, "How're things back home?"  
  
It's like a switch being thrown on the conversation. And Jesus, that tying a couple of hunters up is the carefree portion of the discussion says a lot.  
  
"It's…it's not any worse," Scott says. Which means it's not any better. _Great_. "The Lewis and the Furlong packs are circling. They don't know our numbers or the territory well enough to make a move yet."  
  
Stiles curses, raking a hand back through his hair. "But they will?"  
  
Scott sighs. "Yeah," he says. "Soon probably."  
  
 _Shit_.  
  
"Erica and Isaac?"  
  
"They're good," Scott says. "We're running perimeters twice daily."  
  
Which means they're running themselves ragged. All to bluff encroaching packs into thinking they're bigger than they are.  
  
Stiles turns. "I should send Boyd-"  
  
"No," Scott cuts him off. "You might need him."  
  
"Scott, we're-"  
  
"Just find him okay?" Scott says, and god - if anyone had told Stiles two years ago that Scott of all people would be begging Stiles to bring Derek back to life he'd have laughed _so_ hard. "He's our only chance here."  
  
Stiles sucks in a breath, taps a nervous rhythm out over his heart. "Yeah, okay," he says. "I will."

* * *

  
Dean hisses as the ropes pull tight. Professional tight. Chick knows what she's doing. "You mind?"  
  
Miss Bondage thins her lips. "Not at all."  
  
One final yank and Dean's tied to the chair so damn well he might as well have grown there.  
  
Sam grunts, secured just as tightly beside him. "This is not generally how you ask someone for help."  
  
"Yeah, well," Stilinski says, snapping his phone shut as he rejoins the group. "We don't have time for niceties."  
  
Yeah, Dean heard. Not a lot. Not enough to form a plan. But enough. He's not stupid – there's only one thing that could light a fire like this under a werewolf pack's collective ass.  
  
"Let me guess," he says. "You went and got your Alpha killed."  
  
Dean expects snarls. Claws. Something animal. Instead a look much darker flashes across Stilinski's face and it's only Miss Bondage's hand on his shoulder that keeps the kid from doing what looks to be something painful to Dean's person. Stilinski does snarl then, but it's very obviously human.   
  
Dean would like to know what the _hell_ is going on. _Yesterday_.  
  
"He was killed by a rival Alpha," Lydia says, eyes on Stilinski.   
  
Stilinski who's turned his back on everyone, scrubbing both hands down over his face like he can scrub the world away. It's a move Dean knows well. Hell, it's a move Dean's _perfected_.  
  
Kid's fucking losing it.  
  
"And now you want to resurrect him?" Sam says, scowling. "In what story does that go well?"  
  
Lydia shoots them a look, and flowery dress or no freaking flowery dress, Dean would take a step back if he could. "Yours," she says. And… well, point.  
  
"Do you know what happens to a pack without an Alpha?" Miss Bondage asks. Like they're in hunter kindergarten and Dean's eating the Playdoh. Dean would take offence if he weren't currently tied to a chair. Miss Bondage moves around the table where Sam and Dean's weapons are laid out.  "They scatter," she explains. "To be hunted down as Omegas."  
  
"We know the drill," Sam says. "A wolf without a pack is more prone to violence."   
  
Dean rolls his eyes. Bla bla, moon's pull, bla. It's no coincidence that every wolf to fall to Sam and Dean's wolfsbane bullets have been Omegas. This is hunting 101.  
  
Miss Bondage narrows her eyes at them, tapping at Dean's hunting knife. Dean's been more threatened, but not by much. "Those that stay find themselves up against rival packs looking to carve out new territory," she says. "Either way, they're dead."  
  
"You mean you're dead," Sam says.  
  
Dean shoots Sam a quelling look because, no, god _dammit_. Dean knows that tone. Sam and his bleeding friggin' heart.  
  
"We're not running," Stilinski says, finally turning back. "Beacon Hills is our home."  
  
Oh for the love of-  
  
"Okay, one," Dean says. "I know for a fact you two-" he nods to Lydia and Miss Bondage, "-are human, so don't give me that hunted down bullshit. And two-"  
  
"Just because we're human doesn't mean we're not pack," Lydia snaps.  
  
It must be a new sentiment coming from her because Stilinski, Jawsome and Miss Bondage are staring like she's grown a second goddamn head. Lydia sniffs and tosses her hair. It's a move she looks to have perfected. "I've been through too much with these idiots to watch them die."  
  
Stilinski grins, slow and genuine, like Lydia's blossomed into something sparkly and new. It's a freaking kodak moment. Dean's gonna shed a tear any moment here, really.  
  
"How exactly do you think we can help you?" Sam says. "I mean, yeah – we've ah…been resurrected a couple of times..." A couple. Dean snorts. "But that wasn't us-"  
  
"Don't act dumb," Lydia says. "It's not a good look on you."  
  
Dean ducks his head as he smirks but Sam catches it anyway. He's gonna get sucker punched when they get out of this, Dean can feel it.  
  
"Derek died a supernatural creature," Stiles says. And, Derek. God, now they're being recruited to resurrect a dude who sounds like he belongs in a Mills and Boon novel. "And guess where supernatural creatures go after death?"  
  
It takes a second for the pieces to fall into place; for Dean to realise just how goddamn crazy this band of misfits are.  
  
Fucking _hell_.   
  
Only, well, not.

* * *

  
Purgatory.  
  
The stories tell of a great beyond; an afterlife not so very different from Heaven and Hell, but for its occupants. Beasts. Monsters. Shifters. An in-between place for the in-between creatures. Their path, the stories call it. Their light.  
  
Whoever made up that shit was employing some serious freaking poetic licence.  
  
Derek cocks his head, scenting the air and wrinkling his nose against the mustiness of it. Everything here is dull; muted in a way that makes him want to rub his nose and scratch at his ears until things start making sense again.  
  
He doesn't know how long it's been. Hours, months – everything blends. Only his memories are sharp. Stiles' voice yelling his name. Stiles' hand, hot and wet on his neck where he's trying to hold Derek together.  
  
 _"Don't you dare die," Stiles says. "Please, Derek, C'mon-"_  
  
Derek shakes his head, scratches one clawed hand down the carpeted bark of a dead tree. There's a howl in the distance, something deeper and darker than a wolf and Derek's head snaps up.  
  
He doesn't know how long he's been here. But he does know he can't stop moving.

* * *

  
"So," Dean says, eyeing Stilinski. "Not a werewolf?"  
  
Stilinski smirks and flashes the yellow eyes again. "A glamour," he says. "Needed you to take the bait."  
  
Which they had, fuck Dean's life. He flexes his hands under the ropes still binding him securely to the chair. Too much longer and he's gonna start losing feeling. "And you couldn't just send in a real wolf because?"  
  
"You're hunters," Miss Bondage says, like that's all the explanation needed. Right.  
  
"And you're the expert on hunters," Dean says, sourly.  
  
Stilinski makes a sound like he's dying and tall dark and hulking slaps him hard on the back.  
  
Miss Bondage grins, sharp and—okay, yeah, Dean can admit it—a little terrifying as she crouches before Dean. "Hi, we haven't met," she says. "I'm Allison Argent."  
  
Sam makes a surprised sound next to him and thank god, this is why Dean keeps him around. "Little help?" he says out of the corner of his mouth.  
  
Sam sighs, like Dean hasn't studied for a test and he's letting the whole team down. "The Argents are to werewolves what we are to demons, Dean."  
  
"Ah," Dean says, looking Argent over with new eyes. "Well, it's good to have a specialty."  
  
Argent snorts and turns away.  
  
"What makes you think we can get you into Purgatory?" Sam says as Stilinski picks one of the knives off the table beside them.  
  
There's no showy twirl, no threatening swagger. Just a dude with a hunting knife who looks like he knows what to do with it. At least until he tests it's sharpness and cuts his own finger open. The more Dean learns about this group, the more mortified he is they got the drop on him and Sam.  
  
"Oh please," Stilinski says, sucking on his thumb. "At this point, you're practically on the door."  
  
 _Point_.  
  
"Okay," Sam says. "What makes you think we _will_?"  
  
" _You_ won't," Stiles says, before turning to Dean. "He will. Because you-" A knife point aimed at Sammy, and Dean can't help the way he tenses, "-will be hanging out here with Boyd."  
  
So Muscles has a name, then. Dean feels his lip curl as he glares around at the group. "The last guy who tried to hold my brother hostage got his head cut off," he says.  
  
"Yeah, well," Stilinski says, blood on his bottom lip. "I'm good at ducking."

* * *

  
Derek ducks, snarls and lashes out, catching his attacker across the chest with a clawed swipe. The thing—Derek doesn't even know what it is—hisses back at him, splattering black blood across the grey leaf litter as it staggers to its knees. Derek doesn't hesitate—has learned the hard way not to—as he steps in to bury his claws up under the things chin. Black ooze sprays down to his elbow as he tears the things head from its shoulders.  
  
The body collapses sideways and Derek grimaces, shaking his hand out and only succeeding in splattering his jeans with another layer of blood. Perfect.  
  
"A solid nine," a voice says, and Derek spins with a growl only to stagger to a halt. Laura smirks at him, one shoulder propped against a tree. "Little shaky on the dismount."  
  
"Laura." His voice cracks, he can't help it. Not when Laura's grinning at him, head cocked and _real_. She's real like nothing else in this god-forsaken place is.  
  
Laura's smile wobbles, eyes going soft as she looks him over. "You look like hell."  
  
Derek huffs a broken laugh. "You look amazing."  
  
Actually she looks like she's been dragged, kicking and screaming through the slush heaps of an abattoir. It doesn't stop him pulling her into the worlds longest hug, burying his face in her neck and holding tight.

* * *

  
Stiles watches his breath fog in front of him with a detached sort of interest. The moon's out – almost full enough that pulling Boyd away from the pack proper would be too much of a risk under any other circumstances. Now though… well, everything's a risk now.  
  
"Hey," Allison says, softly, stepping up close enough beside him to bump shoulders. "How're you doing?"  
  
They've been asking that a lot lately. The whole pack, with varying degrees of subtlety. Stiles wants to be able to blame them but he can't. Not even he'd been prepared for how intensely he'd lost the fucking plot after- well, after.  
  
"I'm good," Stiles says. "It's- we're doing something, y'know?"  
  
It's not just desperate, sleepless research anymore. Not just dead ends and Deaton telling them nothing is possible.   
  
It's not just Derek being gone with no hope of ever getting him back.  
  
"Yeah," Allison says, tipping her face up into the moonlight. "I get that."  
  
Stiles snorts. "Good." Then, because he's an asshole, "You can tell Scott I haven't snapped yet."  
  
Allison stiffens beside him. "I wasn't-"  
  
Stiles shoots her a look and yep, like a freaking house of cards. A house of cards with big brown eyes and a guilt complex a mile wide, damn her to hell.  
  
"We just worry about you," Allison says. "After what happened-"  
  
"I know," Stiles cuts her off. "I know I-" Stiles stops, takes a breath and fists his hands in his pockets. Derek's pockets really, this being Derek's jacket. God, he really is fucked up. "I just need him back."  
  
The silence that follows the statement is a loaded one, but Allison—bless her cotton soul—doesn't push. Instead she links her arm through his, pressing into his side as she lets him lean on her.  
  
"Let's go get him then."

* * *

  
Sam watches as the group suits up. The Argent girl looks to be carrying a small arsenal while Lydia and Stiles have satisfied themselves with a hunting knife each plus a samurai sword and—of all things—a baseball bat, respectively. Jesus Christ, his brother's going to _die_.  
  
Sam tells him as much, which earns him an eye roll.  
  
"Please," Dean says, shucking his jacket on. "Purgatory's old hat, dude."  
  
"With them, though?" Sam says, gesturing widely to the teen monster brigade. "You'll be lucky if you make it past the gate."  
  
"I dunno," Dean shrugs. "They caught us, didn't they?"  
  
Okay, what the hell?  
  
"Dean-"  
  
Dean cuts him off with a sharp look and Sam knows it, watches as Dean looks away and scratches at his ear. To anyone looking it'll seem like a nonchalant tick. Sam knows better.  
  
Dean thinks they have ears on them.  
  
Okay. "So what," Sam says, carefully. "I just get to sit here like a good little military wife?"  
  
Dean claps him on the shoulder, all nonchalance until he squeezes at the end. _Trust me_ , it says. Like that's enough to stop Sam wanting to gnaw through his own lip.  
  
"Aw Sammy, don't be like that," Dean says, plucking up his collar and grinning. "It'll be your turn to go to monster afterlife next time. See the sights, have drinks with old friends."   
  
Sam's eyes widen because,  _shit_. Dean nods, eyes going serious even as he keeps grinning for their possible audience. "It's gonna _suck_."

* * *

  
The cave is dull and grey, just like everything else. It's almost nice in a way. Familiar to the point of comforting. That should probably worry him more than it does. Benny hunkers down in the shadows and tries to sleep through the cries of the damned.

* * *

  
_"You'd miss me if I were gone," Stiles said, biting into his burger with all the finesse of a lion ripping into a gazelle. Derek didn't know whether to be disgusted or impressed._   
  
_"I think we ought to investigate that claim for science," Derek said, crunching down on a fry. "How soon can you move out of town?"_   
  
_Stiles rolled his eyes, thumbing sauce from his chin. Derek looked away before Stiles could suck the finger into his mouth. Because it was disgusting, that's all. He didn't need to see that shit, okay?_   
  
_"You're a riot," Stiles said, deadpan._   
  
_Derek bit down on a smirk as he slurped up a helping of cherry cola. It was pure sugar on his tongue and would probably make it harder to sleep later but Derek couldn't find it in himself to care. The stakeout tonight had been a bust, the tipoff about the rogue pack's den proving less supernatural and more illegal rave. This town, seriously._   
  
_"I'd miss you, I think," Stiles said, suddenly. Derek didn't choke on his cola, but it was a near thing. Stiles hummed, waving his own straw at Derek and spattering the table between them with droplets of Sprite. "Your face has grown on me."_   
  
_"My face," Derek said, flatly._   
  
_Stiles grinned, long fingers connecting dots of puddled soda. "Well, it's definitely not your sunny disposition."_

* * *

  
Derek misses the sun. Which is saying a lot considering he'd been a pretty dedicated night owl before he'd died. It's the heat and the prickling energy of it, he thinks. Feeling it beat down on his bare back as he spars with the pack. Putting Stiles in the dirt over and over again until he learned how to dodge; how to use Derek's strength against him.  
  
Derek digs his claws into the tree trunk probably a little harder than is strictly warranted, tracing Laura's steps as she picks her way up the incline.  
  
They're staying pretty consistently on the move, pressing forward at a steady pace and stopping only when absolutely necessary to catch their breath. It's the best defence, Laura says, against the assortment of monsters haunting the grey.  
  
"Why not hole up somewhere?" Derek says, stepping over a fallen branch and avoiding the crack of surrounding twigs. "Build defences?"  
  
"Still all about putting up walls I see," Laura says, shooting him a teasing look.  
  
Derek scowls, and it's ridiculous that it's a relief, but it is. He hasn't been able to take offence to Laura's teasing for far too long.  
  
"Anyway," Laura says, vaulting over a tree stump. "It wouldn't work. The scenery changes. You'll have noticed nothing seems familiar?"  
  
Derek frowns and nods. Even when he's backtracking, re-tracing his steps, nothing looks or smells the same. It's like an etch-a-sketch that's shaken up with every stride Derek takes.  
  
"That's Purgatory," Laura says. "The road's ever changing."  
  
It sounds like the lyric to an old song and Derek scowls around the urge to hum it's tune. "You keep calling it that." Laura tilts her head at him and Derek sighs. "The road. How the hell is any of this-" Derek gestures around to the grey wilderness, "-a road."  
  
"Because it is." Laura shrugs. "Well, figuratively speaking."  
  
No shit. Derek rolls his eyes. "You sound like Mom, with the cryptic and the-"  
  
Laura stops so suddenly Derek nearly plows straight into her back. Derek would cuss her out for it except the look she turns on him stops him dead.  
  
"Don't you-" Laura stops, smile spreading across her face and it's like seeing the sun again. "You frigging doofus, you didn't listen to any of the stories, did you?"  
  
Sue him, his mother was many things but an interesting story-teller wasn't one of them. Derek remembers sitting with her, night after night, growing drowsy in front of the fire. Her voice had been like smoke, warm and dragging him down. Derek folds his arms in front of him and cocks an eyebrow.  
  
"This is a road," Laura explains, gestures growing excited. "At the end of it is our afterlife. Our _heaven_."  
  
"Bullshit," Derek growls, "I've seen the monsters here." _I'm one of them_ , he doesn't say. "You expect me to believe these things have _Heaven_ waiting for them?"  
  
Laura shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not," she says. "They're stuck _here,_  though, because they won't _try_. Just like I knew _you_ wouldn't."  
  
A howl going up in the distance does nothing at all to chill Derek's blood, because it's already there. "Laura-"  
  
"Just because some bitch took advantage of you when you were a fucking _child_ , Derek, doesn't mean-"  
  
It shouldn't be possible to panic postmortem. Derek doesn't even have a body, for fucks sake. He manages it, though. The full kaleidoscope of thundering pulse, tilting vision and legs that won't quite work anymore.  
  
"Derek? Shit-"  
  
Derek can't keep up with anything. Doesn't even know when he ended up sitting, Laura crouched worriedly between his knees, dragging him into a hug that smells of death.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she's murmuring, over and over. _She's_ sorry. Oh god. She's-  
  
Derek swallows around a throat that feels like sandpaper. "H-how long?"  
  
Laura doesn't let go, doesn't pull back as she presses her answer into his neck. "I worked it out just after the fire," she says. "I didn't- God, Derek, I'm so sorry, I didn't know what to _say_."  
  
 _He_ should say something. _It was my fault. I shouldn't have let her get so close. I shouldn't have told her._ Anything. But Derek knows if he opens his mouth right now, anything he says is going to come out broken. Instead he just grits his teeth and clutches Laura back.  
  
It's a howl, closer than any of the others that draws them apart.  
  
Laura tilts her head, sniffing at the air. "We gotta keep moving." She squeezes Derek's arm. "Okay?"  
  
Derek nods, letting her pull him to his feet.  
  
"We're going home," Laura says, leading them on.  
  
Home. Derek knows she's talking about their family. Mom and Daniel and Cora and Kieran. And yet for a split second, Derek can't help picturing a young, ragtag pack of juvenile delinquents, dodging through the sunlight-dappled forest; tackling each other into the ground. Can't help picturing Stiles on the Hale house porch, rocking back on his heels and roaring with laughter.  
  
Derek shakes his head and follows.

* * *

  
The alley smells of urine and garbage. As a mystical crossroads between planes of existence goes, it could probably use a slight polish. Lydia wrinkles her nose as she steps over something she refuses to look closely at. These are new shoes, damn it.  
  
"Here? Seriously?" Stiles says, taking in the overflowing dumpster. It's one of the very few times Lydia can fully agree with a sentiment touted by Stiles Stilinski.  
  
Hunter McPorn-Lips spreads his hands like a magician revealing a trick. "What, you wanted a crypt? Some mystic bullshit symbols maybe?"  
  
"Yuh-huh!" Stiles says, flailing on the spot.  
  
Dean blinks at Stiles like most people unaccustomed to Stiles tend to do at the beginning of the interaction. Lydia had been one of those people once. Ah, _memories_.  
  
"It's fine," Lydia says, passing her bag over to Allison. "This'll work."  
  
Dean shoots her a sceptical look. It's the same one he'd levelled at Stiles in the car when he'd expressed the need for a reaper on side and Stiles had told him they have it covered.  
  
Because they do. Much to Lydia's discomfort. Peter Hale had a lot to answer for, but this? Turning her into- Lydia stops, takes a breath and thinks calming thoughts. Macy's sales. Her acceptance letters to Stanford, Yale and Columbia. The jarring of the sword in her hands as she'd cleaved Peter's lying head from his shoulders.  
  
Allison steps up next to her and as much as Lydia's all about her own two feet these days, it's nice to know she can sway a little and someone'll be there.  
  
"You've got this," Allison says.  
  
Lydia takes a breath. And then she smirks and straightens her shoulders. Because she  _does_.  
  
The alley's stench fades when she closes her eyes, the downtown foot traffic dulling to a distant hum as she slips into the state she needs. The between state, Deaton had called it.  
  
Between.  
  
 _"Think of earth, what we call the mortal plane, as a room."_  
  
 _The tray of stoppered glass jars rattled before her; the earthy smell of mountain ash curling around them as Deaton leaned over the surgery table._  
  
 _"On all four sides of this room, are walls," Deaton explained. "And on the other side of those walls, are more rooms. Purgatory, Heaven, Hell…"_  
  
 _The scratches of Deaton's pen were sharp against the paper, the diagram hasty but effective. Lydia felt like she was in therapy all over again._  
  
 _"Ordinarily, the walls are without doors. No way in, or out." A dramatic pause. A significant look. Lydia only just kept herself from rolling her eyes. "Unless someone builds a door."_  
  
 _Reapers, Lydia remembered. Deaton had explained them before. They were the builders. They cut to and from the worlds, ferrying souls to their rest, or their torture._  
  
 _"When Peter marked you, he used you to hold the door for him."_  
  
 _Lydia didn't freeze. Deliberately didn't. She was done being afraid of a name, for god's sake._  
  
 _"Great," Lydia said. "I'm a doorstop."_  
  
 _Deaton smiled – soft and—okay, yeah, she was going there—infinitely freaking creepy. The man was weird, okay? Lydia couldn't be the only one thinking it._  
  
 _"You're more than that," Deaton said, tapping a lead smudge onto the page. "You've held a door. You can hold another."_  
  
There.  
  
Lydia cocks her head, listening – sifting through the background static of life around her to- yes. It's a whistling _other_ , like a breeze creeping in through a fracture in a window. Lydia listens, gages and reaches out...  
  
The door cracks open under her touch.

* * *

  
Derek doesn't know how long they travel. To say the days and nights in Purgatory aren't consistent would be like calling Scott slightly stubborn. Derek's seen the light drop, grey darkening almost to pitch, only for the whole world to flicker back to slate mere minutes later. At other times, the darkness lasts hours; maybe days.  
  
Laura snorts when he asks about it.  
  
"It's inconsistency," she says. "Neither A nor B. It's what Purgatory _is_."  
  
Derek frowns. "How can you- How have you not gone _insane_?"  
  
Laura shoots him a smirk. The same one she used to sport when exiting the bathroom, knowing she'd used up all the hot water. "Who says I haven't?"  
  
Derek rolls his eyes at her and she laughs. "It's not totally hopeless," she says. "Sometimes the change is good."  
  
Derek grunts. He's been here weeks at least. He has yet to see any good.  
  
"Take the people," Laura says, grasping Derek's wrist and levering him up a short outcrop. "New faces turn up, old ones cross over."  
  
The earth feels crumbly and indistinct under his feet. Derek would worry about his footing if he weren't used to the _whole place_ feeling like this. "Any you recognise?"  
  
"No I-" Laura stops, frowning as she turns to him. "Why do you ask?"  
  
Well, okay – so much for easing into it. "Peter's here," Derek says. "Or he should be at least."  
  
Laura's expression doesn't change which is about the biggest tell there is. She's freezing; assessing – just like she always does when thrown a curve ball. "He died?"  
  
"Was killed," Derek says, watching Laura's face as she turns away. If there were any doubts in his mind that she knew what'd happened to her, they're up in flames now. "Someone cut his head off."  
  
Laura makes a considering noise, looking out over the grey. "Not you then?"  
  
Derek curls his hands into fists, claws itching. "I killed him the first time," he says.  
  
"The first-" Laura huffs, incredulously. "I think it's time you filled me in on what happened after I went grave-side."  
  
So Derek….starts talking.  
  
It's hard. Not all the words come easy and those that do don't express enough. He doesn't know how to tell her how alone he'd felt. How finding her body was like surviving the fire all over again. He tells her about Scott, about Peter's revenge spree, but doesn't know how to explain the conflicting impulses to help Scott and to not let himself get too close. He'd called them brothers, but they never had been. Not really. Scott had been Peter's and then…then Scott had been his own.  
  
Laura makes a face when he explains the truce with Allison and Chris Argent. He doesn't bother defending the family—doesn't have the inclination or the right—but he does talk about how they've helped stabilise Beacon Hills. Allison is smart, skilled and ruthless in protecting those she cares for. Derek will never fool himself into calling what they have friendship, but there's mutual respect there.  
  
He chokes on his own words when he explains turning Isaac, Boyd and Erica. Feels sick to his stomach at what that means for them now, with him gone. He'd promised them pack. Promised them family. And now… he knows what happens to packs without an Alpha. Knows the odds of their survival. Scott will step up, Derek knows he will, but without an Alpha's power behind him…  
  
No. No, they'll find a way. They have to.  
  
Derek has to take a breath, walks the next mile in silence before Laura asks him about Peter.  
  
"Tell me how the son of a bitch lost his head," she says.  
  
So Derek tells her about Lydia. About how Beacon Hills High's most popular fashionista had fallen to Peter's manipulations only to bounce back up with a samurai sword in hand.  
  
"You would have liked her," Derek says. "She's your kind of terrifying."  
  
Laura smirks.  
  
Derek talks until he runs out of breath. Talks as the hours fade from grey to pitch and back again. He talks about everything.  
  
About everything except Stiles.  
  
He just…can't. Can't seem to form the words. Can't tell her that every step he takes with her, feels like a step he's taking away from a stupid, goddamn kid with too much mouth and not enough self preservation. This is… no. No.  
  
Derek ducks his head, accepts Laura's arm around his shoulders as they bunk down for the night, however long this one lasts. He leans into his sister's warmth, closes his eyes and hears Stiles' voice in his head.  
  
 _"Don't you dare leave me like this, you asshole. Don't you dare."_

* * *

  
Stiles lands on his face. Which is about as pleasant as it sounds. At least there are groans around him which means he's not the only one to have fudged the dismount.  
  
"Screw portals, man," Dean says, somewhere to his left.   
  
Stiles throws a thumbs up in Dean's general direction and groans, levering himself up onto his knees. His joints scream at him like he's just tackled Mount Everest in nothing but thermals and Chucks. Apparently marathoning it from Earth to Purgatory is hell on the old knees.  
  
"Where are we?" Allison says, already on her feet because of course she is.   
  
She even has an arrow knocked. Jesus.  
  
"Other than Purgatory," Dean says. "I've got no clue. There aren't exactly a lot of landmarks here."  
  
"I'm getting that," Lydia says. Stiles follows her gaze down to the dirt in front of her. As he watches, she steps, leaving behind a clear footprint before-  
  
"Holy crap," Stiles says, gaping down at the smooth, un-dented patch of earth. "That is trippy."  
  
"It also makes tracking anything friggin' impossible," Dean says.  
  
Well that sounds all kinds of not promising at all.  
  
Allison frowns. "How're we supposed to-"  
  
"Word of mouth," Dean says. "Purgatory's full of drifters. Those drifters cross paths."  
  
Stiles hefts the McCall baseball bat up onto his shoulder. It's probably not the most ideal weapon, but they're still working on his handling sharp things without taking off his own appendages. It's fine. Stiles works with what he's got. Which is a killer swing.   
  
"So, what," he says. "We just wander aimlessly until we run across someone and ask nicely whether they've seen Derek?"  
  
A ragged scream goes up in the distance, something cut off and far more guttural than anything Stiles has ever heard. And he lives in Beacon goddamn Hills. Allison isn't the only one who drops into a defensive stance.  
  
Dean smirks and it's the expression of the mass-murdering serial killer Stiles had been led to believe the Winchesters were from the beginning. Happy days.   
  
"Oh don't worry, they'll mostly come to us," Dean says. "I'm gonna need that machete you promised me now."

* * *

  
Sam considers himself a patient guy. Particularly when compared to his brother because Jesus, Dean can't even sit through movie previews without throwing something at the screen. So when he's on edge, that edge is pretty goddamn sharp. Razor, even. Like the blade of the knife he'd like to stick into his own damn hand just for something to _do_.  
  
"So," he says. "Werewolves huh?"  
  
Boyd doesn't even look up from his phone. When Stiles had left, he'd told him to "call his girlfriend" so Sam can only assume that who Boyd's been glued to his keypad with. Hell, texting is probably ninety-nine percent of their interaction if this experience is anything to go by.  
  
Sam stretches, edging back onto two legs of his chair. He hasn't been tied up since the rest of the group left with Dean. Most would consider that an opportunity, but Sam's not so sure. Not to buy tickets or anything, but leaving one guy to guard him when he has his hands free? This group doesn't seem _that_ stupid. Which can only mean one thing.  
  
"When were you bitten?"  
  
Boyd still doesn't look up, but he pauses mid-text. It may as well be a glaring neon sign over his head. WEREWOLF.  
  
Sam tips his head back and tries to sight the sky out the broken window of the foreman's office. "It's a full moon soon, isn't it?"  
  
Boyd sighs, like Sam's a bee that won't stop buzzing. "It's on Sunday."  
  
Sam nods, hums and tries not to freak. "Two days," he says, neutral as he can. "That's gotta be edging at you."  
  
"I handle it," Boyd says, looking up to lock eyes with Sam. They're dark and serious. Not a hint of gold. Yet.  
  
Sam needs to get the hell out of here.

* * *

  
It's like slipping into an old, falling-to-pieces jacket. It's worn and uncomfortable, but familiar. Dean knows Purgatory. Right down at bone-level, he knows it.  
  
Which is why, when the first pack of leviathan find them, he's already on his feet and swinging.  
  
"The head!" He yells, as the grey explodes with violence around him. "Take their heads off!"  
  
The leviathan in front of him hisses, face splitting open into its customary gaping maw of fangs, and Dean ducks under its lunge, coming up machete-first to sever its head under the jaw. He follows his momentum into a turn, blood dripping down his arm as he blocks the lunge from the dick behind him.  
  
Across the clearing, Stilinski and Lydia are tag teaming – Stilinski putting leviathans down hard with vicious-looking swings so that Lydia can lop their heads off clean. Allison's stowed the bow, working instead with long knives and yeah, okay – definitely a hunter.  
  
"Stiles!" she yells, lobbing one of the knives his way, which seriously? Has she met the kid?  
  
Dean grunts, throwing a knee up hard into the leviathan tangling with him, pushing back until the dick's eating bark. Dean looks up just in time to watch Stilinski catch the knife with a fumble, using its momentum to swing up and bury the thing in the leviathan that has gone the ambush route behind him. Jesus fucking Cchrist, who are these kids?  
  
Dean focuses back on his own fight, only to find the leviathan is just as distracted as he is. Watching Stilinski.  
  
Watching Stilinski like it _knows him_.  
  
The leviathan swings back to him, mouth grim and Dean swears. He lunges too late – catches only black smoke. Not good. Not at all fucking good.  
  
"Everyone alive?" Allison says, taking her knife back from Stilinski.  
  
"What the hell were those things?" Lydia says, cleaning her own blade on the edge of Stilinski's jacket. Stilinski just sighs at her, resigned to his fate of human washrag.  
  
Human washrag that inspires familiarity in leviathans.  
  
"Nothing good," Dean says, eyes narrowing. "Let's keep moving."

* * *

  
"Goddammit," Laura swears as they crest what feels like the hundredth blind ridge. The hundredth blind ridge that's revealed nothing but more forest. More grey.  
  
Laura punches a tree, caving the trunk around her knuckles. "We should have been there by now."  
  
Derek frowns, eyes casting out across the grey expanse before them. "Where?"  
  
"The end of the freaking line!" Laura says. "The white light at the end of the goddamn tunnel!" Derek's confusion must show on his face because Laura rolls her eyes. "The crossing, genius – we should be at the crossing by now."  
  
Derek blinks. Because oh. _Shit_.  
  
 _"The crossing," his mother said, fluffing one hand back through his hair. "Is at the end of your path, dove."_  
  
 _Derek purred into her touch, tiny claws pawing at his mom's bathrobe. "An' how long's the path?"_  
  
"As long as you need it to be," Derek says, meeting Laura's eyes when she turns back to him. "That's what Mom used to say." Laura frowns, confused and he can't- Oh god, he doesn't know if he can say goodbye again. Not that he has a choice here. Not now. Derek takes a breath, steeling himself. "You're not going to find it with me."  
  
Laura's confusion whiplashes into anger so fast, Derek actually takes a step back from it. "No," she snarls. "You do not get to think you don't deserve-"  
  
Derek raises his hands, catching Laura's and clutching. "I don't. I promise."  
  
Or rather, he doesn't know. Doesn't know if the guilt would have been enough to hold him back. Because it's not what's doing the trick right now.  
  
"What then?" Laura says, turning her hands over in his to grip him back. "Why-"  
  
"I left them," Derek says. Erica, Isaac and Boyd. Lydia and Scott. Stiles… "Laura, they're-"  
  
"If you say Pack I will rip your fucking face off, so help me," Laura growls, hands going clawed in his grip. It's killing him, hearing the snarl in her words. Feeling the shift of bone under his grasp. Laura never loses control. Ever.  
  
Derek yanks her forward into his arms and god, he'd forgotten how tiny she can be. When all her bluster fails. When all she is is crushing him back with a desperation he feels at bone level.  
  
Laura thumps him on the back, hard. Derek just holds her tighter as she shakes.  
  
"I can't-" Laura stops, sniffs wetly and Derek swallows around what feels like a boulder stuck in his throat. "You can't stay here, Derek," she says. "I won't let you do that to yourself."  
  
"You stayed," Derek says, softly.  
  
"For you, you dingus," Laura says, pulling back. She's tear-streaked and grimy, covered in god knows how many layers of blood and filth and Derek just wants to build a goddamn pillow fort and hide away with her forever. "We stick together, remember?"  
  
"I know," Derek says, thumbing a tear off Laura's cheek. "I know but-"  
  
"If you stay, I stay," Laura says fiercely.  
  
Derek would argue. Would shout and snarl but he knows Laura. Knows when she's dug down into something, you'd have more luck shifting the earth than her feet.  
  
Okay. _Okay_. So. "Are those our only options?" he says. "Crossing or staying?"  
  
Laura's frown pinches between her eyebrows. "What the hell else would there be?"  
  
Derek braces. Tries not to feel ten shades of crazy and utterly fails. "Going back."  
  
"You-" Laura stops. "You want to _resurrect yourself_?"  
  
Derek shrugs; tips the corners of his mouth up. "What? Like it's hard?"  
  
Laura gapes at him before abruptly spinning on her heel, crunching down the incline the way they'd come. "When we get back, I'm telling every freaking member of your new _Pack_ that your favourite movie is Legally Blonde."  
  
It's like someone's thrown a heat lamp on behind his ribcage. Derek feels his mouth stretch into a grin for the first time in what feels like years. Then suddenly Laura's spinning back and Derek's skidding sideways into a tree to avoid tripping over her.   
  
"You have to promise me something, though," she says.  
  
Derek swallows and nods, bark digging into his back.  
  
"If this doesn't pan out—if there's no way back—you cross with me, okay?" Laura says. "That's our deal."  
  
Right. Derek takes a breath and tries not to feel all of six goddamn years old when he holds up a pinkie. "If there's no way back."  
  
Laura looks from his pinkie, back to his face and he sees the moment she remembers. Cora. Baby Cora who'd discovered pinky promises and had spent three weeks making people promise her everything from frosties cereal to letting her sleep with the hallway lights on.  
  
 _"Promise you'll always be my big brother!" she growled, bouncing on his chest until he gave in and held out a pinkie._  
  
Laura links pinkies with him and smiles softly. "Okay," she says.  
  
Then she spins on her heel and sets off. Derek almost falls down the hill following. Laura's nothing if not adept at regressing him back to his awkward teenage years.   
  
"Where're we going?"  
  
"To see a vampire about a resurrection!" Laura calls over her shoulder.

* * *

  
It's been a long time since Boyd's felt it. The fierce, agonisingly full power of the moon. The Pack has been enough to keep him grounded for years now. The press of Erica at his side; Derek's low rumbles; Scott and Isaac tackling him into the dirt. It keeps him sane. _They_ keep him sane.   
  
But they're not here.  
  
Boyd slides the sandwich across the table to Sam, vision flickering red at the grating sound of porcelain on wood. He's not stupid enough to believe that Sam doesn't notice.  
  
It's still one day off, but the moon's gnawing at his goddamn bones. And tomorrow night…  
  
Tomorrow night it's going to swallow him whole.

* * *

  
She should be cold. It's all Allison can think. The chill of the ground and the wind at her neck is icy but she just…can't feel it. Everything about Purgatory is indistinct and far away.  
  
Except the monsters.  
  
Allison settles into the dirt and wipes her blade down as best she can, wrapping the clawed up handle, curtesy of their latest attackers, in the cloth when she's done.  
  
"You'll stop bothering eventually," Dean says, hunkering down next to her. "It'll get to the stage where the thing'll never be clean again."  
  
"I'm hoping we're not here that long," Allison says, sheathing the blade.   
  
Dean snorts. "You never know with this place."  
  
And they don't. Not really. Deaton had explained the principle and the Winchesters had confirmed it. Time moved differently on other planes. They've been in Purgatory, what? Days? Weeks? Allison doesn't even know anymore. Had stopped trying to keep track after the fifth attack.  
  
Now she just measures in fights. Fights and blood.  
  
"Y'know," Dean says. "Them I kinda get." Allison follows his gesture to where Stiles and Lydia are crashed out against a tree, Stiles' head on Lydia's shoulder as he snores. Allison doesn't know how he does it – sleeps when everything is so indistinct. Dean snags a stick and points it at her, pulling her back into the conversation. "But what about you?"  
  
Allison frowns. Much as they've fought side by side, learned to move and hunt together, Dean's never tried to… well, talk to her like a human being. "What about me?"  
  
"What's a hunter doing fucking about with wolves?"  
  
Allison scowls. "Aside from fucking one you mean?"  
  
Dean spreads his hands as if to say, _you said it, not me_  and Allison has to stamp on the urge to punch him. It's not a new sensation. God, hunters are assholes.  
  
Allison takes a breath, eyes sweeping the tree line around them. She's on watch, and they've all learned the hard way that you take that particular responsibility seriously. "You ever heard of Beacon Hills?"  
  
Dean grunts, pulling his own machete out to clean, despite his earlier words. "Your home town, right?"  
  
"Yeah." Allison nods. "Well the 'beacon' part of the name is kinda literal when it comes to the supernatural."  
  
A monster shrieks in the distance. Stiles and Lydia don't even stir. Jesus, they're getting _used_ to the place.  
  
"Hence werewolves?"  
  
"And everything else," Allison says, watching as Dean's blade shines dully in the grey light. "My family's always had people in the area. But it wasn't until the Hale pack reestablished itself that things started stabilising."  
  
Dean makes an incredulous sound. "You're telling me that werewolves are helping hunters keep the supernatural nasties at bay?" he says.  
  
"I'm telling you that _hunters_ are helping _werewolves_ ," Allison says, pointedly. "Beacon Hills is Pack territory. Has been for generations."  
  
Blood flakes off the handle of Dean's blade where he scrubs his sleeve over it. "I get it, they don't like sharing their land."  
  
"Or their people," Allison says, unsurprised when it earns her a sharp look. God, she can't even fully blame him. Even she'd had trouble grasping this whole thing when Derek had finally sat her and her father down and used his words. "Beacon Hills as a _town_ , is under Pack protection," she explains. "We keep the land and everything on it safe."  
  
"And what does the Pack get out of this deal?"  
  
Allison would smile—her dad had asked the very same thing—but Derek's answer had been like a brick to the chest. "Territory. Stability," Allison says. She looks over to Lydia and Stiles, curled up together against the monsters. "Family."  
  
Dean makes an assessing noise, but doesn't grill her further. Having read up on the Winchester's history, Allison's not all that surprised.

* * *

  
Stability.  
  
 _Family_.  
  
God, he could wretch. Matt's mouth twists as he sinks further into the darkness, tail curling around his legs as he tastes the air. Even after all this time, she still smells the same. Lavender and wickedness.  
  
Allison Argent. Come back to him at last.

* * *

  
Derek scowls, flexing his claws. Since they turned back from the crossing and started their search Laura's been stopping, ticking her head and leading them _towards_ other creatures rather than away from them. Drifters, she'd explained. Purgatory works on a networking system. You want to find something, you ask for directions.  
  
" _Politely_ ," Laura had said, slapping his claws back in when they'd come across their first contact. A scale-riddled lizard thing with more teeth than words. " _You start choking people out and everyone's gonna avoid us like the plague._ "  
  
It'd taken everything in him to point out that half the things they were dealing with weren't strictly people.  
  
Their latest contact is humanoid at least, small, dirty and urgent-looking. He's a resident, Laura had explained. Had been in Purgatory for as long as she had been. Derek doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. He watches as Laura nods along with the guy, frown deepening until her mouth is twisted with it.  
  
Not good.  
  
Derek shifts his weight, ticking his eyes around the clearing as Laura says her goodbyes and turns to head back to him, leaving the drifter to disappear into the trees.  
  
"What's wrong?" Derek says, immediately. He knows those shoulders. Those are the _we're-in-deep-shit_ shoulders.  
  
Laura glances around them, like one of the trees is suddenly going to transform and attack. "Benny's holed up along the southern edge," she says.  
  
Right. "And?"  
  
Laura tenses. "And word is, Dean Winchester's back in Purgatory."  
  
Derek frowns. "Who's Dean Winchester?"  
  
"Someone we do not want to run into," Laura says. "C'mon. We have to move."

* * *

  
It's been two days. Two days camped out with a monosyllabic werewolf edging towards full-on moon madness. To say it hasn't been fun would be an understatement.  
  
Sam taps his foot and edges back in his chair. "They should have been back by now."  
  
Boyd doesn't even look up from his phone. Man, Sam needs to switch to his model because that battery life is amazing. "You said time moved differently there."  
  
"Yeah," Sam says. "It's faster _there_. They should have had time to-"  
  
Sam's cut off by a crunching sound, followed by a sharp snarl as Boyd drops his phone and doubles in on himself.  
  
Shit. _Shit_. Sam glances out the window but it's still light…light but darkening fast. God, if the moon's already affecting Boyd…  
  
"Boyd?" Sam says, edging around the table. The weaponless table. Because of course it is. "Boyd, how you doing, man?"  
  
Boyd snarls and Sam feels his pulse pick up, even as his eyes dart around the room for a weapon; an escape; _anything_. What he finds is three metal chairs, Boyd's phone that looks like it's had a claw punch through it and one exit. That Boyd's stationed in front of.  
  
"Boyd, I need you to move," Sam says. "You need to let me out'a here."  
  
"No," Boyd says, low and vicious but still human. For now. "I can control it."  
  
Sam watches as Boyd slouches into himself more, claws piercing denim to dig into his own legs, _Jesus_.  
  
"No offense," Sam says. "But it really doesn't look like it from where I'm standing."  
  
Boyd looks up, and- okay yeah, Sam's in deep shit. Because Boyd's half shifted, eyes flashing gold even as he struggles to rein himself back in.  
  
"Boyd-"  
  
"I can-" Boyd stops, snarling again. "I just need to call-"  
  
"Your cell's totalled, dude," Sam says. "There's no phone-a-friend option here."  
  
Boyd blinks down at his cell, like he'd forgotten gutting it himself and Sam's eyes tick to the windows, where the last of the light is fading. "C'mon, man, please – if I stay in here with you, you're gonna kill me."  
  
The moment stretches, razor thin as Sam contemplates the odds of being able to bail up a fully shifted werewolf with a metal chair. Then Boyd grunts and moves aside. "Go." Sam hesitates as Boyd doubles over again. "Go, now!"  
  
 _Shit_.  
  
Sam lunges for the door, but Boyd's faster. Sam goes down with a yell, barely missing having his throat sliced open as they both crash into the wall. It's only training and a whole lot of luck that enables Sam to duck and throw himself out of range, crashing sideways into the table.  
  
Sam doesn't hesitate. A snarling werewolf hot on his heels, he dives for a chair.  
  
And doesn't make it.  
  
Boyd catches him around the ankle, dragging him back. Sam barely has time to roll, see the upswing of the clawed blow that will tear him open, when-  
  
Boyd jerks with the shot, mouth opening in a silent cry before his yellow eyes shutter and he falls. Sam's left to stare incredulously at the tranquilliser dart in his back. Then at the man that fired it.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
He's middle-aged and gruff – grey hair, blue eyes, hard mouth. Hunter. Sam knows the look of one by now.  
  
The man lowers his gun as another pushes past him, holstering his own weapon as he bends over to check Boyd's pulse. The hunter steps forward and Sam takes his offered hand, allows himself to be pulled to his feet.  
  
"Yeah." Sam clears his throat. "You got here in time, thanks."  
  
"He's out cold," the other man says, straightening. "If that stuff works half as well as Deaton said it would we have an hour to get him locked down." It's only when Sam sees the flash of metal at the man's belt that he realises there's a badge to go along with his gun. A sheriff. Plain clothes and- _shit_.  
  
"Let me guess," Sam says, nodding at the hunter. "Argent?"  
  
Argent's eyes narrow. "How did you-"  
  
"My brother and I had a run in with your kids," Sam says.  
  
The sheriff shifts, Boyd seemingly forgotten as he turns all his attention on Sam. "My- Stiles? You've seen Stiles?"  
  
Sam nods, eyes still on Argent. He's stilled, eyes going assessing as he watches Sam. Sam's not dumb enough to think that's anything good. Then suddenly there's a grip at his collar, bailing him up against the table.  
  
"Where is my son?!"

* * *

  
Benny smells 'em before he sees 'em. Wolves. Always smell like friggin' wet dog, this life or the last.  
  
"No dogs allowed," he drawls, not bothering to find his feet.  
  
The pair round the rock shelf into his alcove and Benny's unsurprised by the flash of fangs. He is surprised that it's only one pair.  
  
Until he's not.  
  
"That any way to greet an old friend?" Laura says.  
  
Benny can't help his smile, tipping his head as he looks up at Laura. "Oh darlin', we are many things, but friends ain't one of 'em."  
  
Acquaintances, maybe. Reluctant partners when they happen to be close by and leviathans descend. If Benny'd met Laura earlier, he might have teamed up with her; might have fallen into a comradare. But he hadn't, and they didn't. He'd learned quick not to get attached to the souls in Purgatory. Laura had arrived after that lesson had been drilled in good 'n proper.  
  
Laura's head tilts and she smirks, still pretty under all the blood and grime. "How you doing, Benny?"  
  
Benny heaves himself to his feet, spreading his arms wide. "Living the afterlife," he says. "And yourself?"  
  
"Not so much," Laura says. "Was actually thinking a change of scenery might be in the cards."  
  
Benny stops. Sharp. His eyes flick from Laura to the second wolf. Dark hair, Hale eyes. A brother then. The last, if Benny's rememberin' things proper.  
  
"Not a lot of holiday opportunities in Purgatory, Darlin'," he says, carefully.  
  
The step forward Laura takes is one full of intent. "I was thinking more along the lines of relocation."  
  
Lord God save him from Purgatory's grapevine.  
  
Benny sighs. "I dunno what you've heard but-"  
  
"Come on, Benny," Laura cuts him off. "Don't be a dick."  
  
Benny snorts a laugh before he can help it. Christ but Laura and Dean would have got on like two rottweilers covered in peanut butter.  
  
"You got out," Laura says. "I know you did."  
  
Benny inclines his head. "That's true."  
  
"How?"  
  
The brother's eyes are borin' into Benny something fierce, scowl dark enough to have given Cas a decent run for his money. Benny'd bet anything this whole thing is on him.  
  
"Look," Benny says. "It ain't possible." He holds his hand up as Laura starts to protest. "You need a human. A vessel to get you across the threshold. As you can imagine, there ain't too many of those floatin' around purgatory."  
  
Benny turns away. He's been found here once now, it's time to move on and-  
  
"What about Dean Winchester?"  
  
Benny snaps back around so fast he'd be dizzy if this place didn't already put him in a constant state of it. "What-"  
  
"Word is he's back," Laura says. "Back in Purgatory."  
  
Oh sweet, merciful mother of-

* * *

  
_Christ_.  
  
Winchesters. Allison has gone and tangled with the goddamn _Winchesters_. Chris shifts against the wall and tightens his grip on his Glock. A move that earns him an assessing look from Sam Winchester because he's _Sam Winchester_ , for fucks sake. Were circumstances different, Chris would seriously consider preemptively putting a bullet in the man. But they aren't.   
  
Allison is in Purgatory with one half of the most dangerous hunting team walking the goddamn earth trying to save Derek Hale. Chris wants to throw up.  
  
"They've been gone three days," Sam is saying. "If they don't find Hale soon, I doubt they're going to."  
  
"You said the place they come out is different to where they go in," John says. Sam nods and Chris watches as John steels himself. "Take us there."

* * *

  
Purgatory is like listening to the same song over and over again until it becomes a dull, irritating hum in the back of your head. The fights rise out of the melody like a clanging chorus, but even they're not enough to break the pattern. Stiles really, really needs to break the pattern. He's not good with repetition. It makes him feel stuck. Trapped in a hole and edging further and further towards panic the longer he's boxed in. The determination's the only thing keeping him from losing it here.  
  
Find Derek. Bring him home. _Find Derek_.  
  
Stiles sweeps the vampire's feet out from under it and follows it down with a dagger to the throat.  
  
"I repeat," he says, the sounds of fighting all too familiar around him. "Werewolf. Dark hair. _All_ the eyebrows. Goes by Derek Hale."  
  
The vampire hisses up at him, mouth full of fangs and zero freaking help. Fine. Stiles grunts and leans on the knife, severing the monster's head and spraying blood across the leaf litter. Not too long ago, a move like that would have phased him.  
  
Purgatory, fun times.  
  
"It amuses me," a voice says.  
  
Stiles looks up, finds a well-dressed humanoid dude striding out of the fray towards him and backs hastily into a defensive stance. Black suit. That usually means leviathan but what the hell one would be doing working with vampires, Stiles has no clue.  
  
"Gonna let me in on the joke?" Stiles says, raising his knife.  
  
Suit tips his head, mouth stretching obscenely and yeah, totally leviathan. "All of this effort," Suit says. "When it's another Hale altogether you should be worrying about."  
  
Stiles has just enough time to what-the-fuck before Suit is lunging and Stiles braces, expecting a blow but instead finds his arm clutched in a secure grip.  
  
"Stiles!"  
  
Stiles' eyes flick over to Allison a split second before everything is black smoke.

* * *

  
_"You need to learn to pay attention," Derek said, hands warm and sweat-damp as they adjusted Stiles' arms into the correct stance. "You keep trying to see the whole board when you should be moving one pawn."_  
  
 _Stiles huffed, trying not to squirm too much in Derek's hands because, knowing his life, he'd squirm_ into _them._  
  
 _"I'm a planner, Derek," Stiles said. "The whole board is my home."_  
  
 _Derek kicked his foot out into a wider stance and Stiles grunted, trying and failing_ utterly _not to imagine Derek doing the same thing under pornier circumstances. Oh god, life wasn't fair._  
  
 _"Focus," Derek said, circling around in front of Stiles to drop into his own fight stance. The move was easy and fluid, all lithe grace and contained power. Stiles desperately pictured Coach in a garter belt._  
  
 _"I'm focused," Stiles said, sounding strangled even to his own ears._  
  
 _Derek tipped his head. "On me?"_  
  
Oh god _. Stiles bit down on a groan. "Yup. Totally focused on you."_  
  
 _The smirk Derek levelled at him was all Alpha. "Good," he said. "Now_ wake up _."_

* * *

  
"Stiles. Stiles, c'mon, wake up."  
  
Stiles groans batting upwards in a way that makes whoever's hovering over him growl and catch his hands.  
  
"I swear to god, if you don't get up I will-"  
  
Sharp nails dig into his wrist and Stiles hisses, shunting back into full coherence just in time to yank his arm out of Lydia's grip before he's eligible for a ritual bloodletting.  
  
"Lydia, what the hell-"  
  
"Oh good," a voice says. A voice Stiles could have gone the whole rest of his damn life never hearing again, _fuck_. "You're awake."  
  
Stiles locks wide eyes with Lydia, sees the way she shudders—slight, so slight it's almost not noticeable but he _knows_ her now—and rolls hastily to his knees in front of her.  
  
Peter Hale smirks down at them.  
  
He's flanked on both sides by leviathans, like he's the composer to their creepy-ass choir. It takes Stiles all of three seconds to get very, very scared, because Jesus Christ, Peter has _minions_.  
  
"What in the hell?"  
  
Peter steps forward and Stiles shifts, hardening his stance. "Purgatory actually," Peter says, seemingly finding great amusement in Stiles' actions.   
  
Stiles reaches behind him, finding Lydia's hand and clutching as he pulls himself to his feet. If he's going to face off with their own personal Voldemort he's going to do it standing, thanks.  
  
Peter smacks his lips and glances around them, nonchalantly. "I'm not such a fan, myself," he says. "The place is missing a little _something_."  
  
"I dunno," Stiles says, eyes ticking around the clearing. He's never seen so many leviathans in one place before. It's not only creep-tastic, but also doesn't really favour them getting out of this little encounter intact. "A couple of throw pillows, some rugs. This could be totally homey."  
  
The look Peter levels on him makes Stiles' skin crawl.  
  
"Ah Stiles," he says. "I've missed your bite."  
  
"Can't say the same," Stiles says, feeling Lydia's grip tighten. "What the hell do you want, Peter?"  
  
"Me?" Peter says. "I want to hop a ride back to the land of the living."  
  
"Good luck with that," Stiles says. "I hear the service down here sucks."  
  
There's a laugh off to their side. Something that sounds like a cross between a garbage disposal and a rattle snake. "Oh Stiles..."  
  
Stiles and Lydia spin, backing into a closing circle of leviathans as- oh holy fuck. It's Matt. He's hunched into a crouch, half-kanima-ed all up in the shop but Stiles would recognise that particular brand of gross smirk anywhere.  
  
"Haven't you heard?" Matt says, voice half sibilant hiss as his tail—wow, creepy—curls around his legs. "You are the service." 

* * *

  
"Where would they take them?" Allison says, sheathing her blades and kicking a vampire's fallen staff weapon up and into her grasp. Kid's learning fast, Dean'll give her that.  
  
"There's only one reason they'd be taken," Dean says, crunching down on the partially severed neck of one of their attackers. He's learned the hard way to make sure vamps can't get back up.   
  
"Which is?"  
  
"They'll want to use them to go top side," Dean says. "Only humans can pass through the portal."  
  
Allison pauses and Dean can practically see her turning that over in her head. "So when we came here…"  
  
Dean grunts. "We've had a target painted on us from the start," he says. "Everyone wants out of Purgatory."  
  
The staff thumps into the ground with prejudice. It's all determination and show. This is a girl who will go to the ends of the Earth for her friends. Dean knows that feeling. "So," she says. "We get them back."  
  
He knows it really goddamn well.  
  
"Oh, _we_ will, huh?" he says, rolling his wrist.  
  
The silence that greets him is heavy with shock. When Dean looks up, it's to find Allison's wide eyes on his. Wide eyes that narrow between one blink and the next. "You _will_ help me," she says.  
  
"Why," Dean says. "Because your guard dog is with Sammy? News flash girl, Sam's probably already free and clear."  
  
And if he's not, Dean will make him that way as soon as he's back topside.  
  
"No," Allison says, eyes flashing. "Because you could have left us anytime but you didn't."  
  
Ah.  _Shit_.  
  
It's been three weeks. The kids don't know how to count it but Dean does. Three weeks fighting alongside a band of crazy goddamn teenagers and fuck everything, Dean dares anyone not to get attached to Stiles' humour or Lydia's ruthless charm in that time.  
  
Allison takes a step towards him, hands still hard on her weapons but eyes beseeching. Bambi eyes, Stiles had called her once. He wasn't half freaking wrong. "Help me," Allison says. "Please."  
  
Dean remembers Lydia's laugh when Dean had tripped Stiles into a tree; Stiles' failed attempts at retaliation over the next two days. Fuck. And he'd been worried about Sam's goddamn bleeding heart.  
  
Dean growls, sheathing his machete. "They can't travel far with leviathan express," he says. "If we hurry we might be able to catch them at the portal."  
  
Allison's face brightens so fast it's almost painful to watch. It's nothing to the punch to the gut that comes next, though.  
  
"Always rushin' everywhere," a voice says behind him. Dean's heart thumps hard as he turns and god-frickin-damn- Benny smiles, splaying his hands. "You gotta learn to stop and smell the roses, brother."  
  
He looks like shit, covered head to toe in dried blood and dust. He's also the best thing Dean's seen in a good while.   
  
Three strides has Dean pulling Benny into a hug, the weight of him real like nothing else in this god-forsaken place. "Holy crap, man, it's good to see you."  
  
Benny clutches him back, just as sure as he always has. "You too, Dean."  
  
"Allison?"  
  
Dean pulls back, noticing for the first time that Benny's not traveling alone – he's hooked up with tall dark and hot numbers one and two and wow, go Benny.  
  
Number two's the one who'd spoken, voice not nearly as gravelly as the stubble would indicate.  
  
Dean has all of three seconds to wonder what the hell is going on before Argent is flying past him and wrapping Number Two in a very heart-felt bro hug. Dean looks from them to Benny who shrugs at him.  
  
"Allison, what the hell are you doing here?" Number Two says, and Dean pulls back to watch the interaction.   
  
As he does, Number One catches his gaze, eyes flashing gold for a second and just like that, Dean gets it.  
  
 _It's a small world, aaaafter all!_  
  
Allison scrubs hastily at her cheeks as she steps back from Derek—Dean'll spit in his own eye if he's wrong about that—back straightening as she pulls herself together.  
  
"We came to find you," Allison says. "I don't-"  
  
"We?" Derek interrupts. "Who's we?"  
  
Allison looks up. "Stiles and Lydia-" She stops and Dean can't really blame her. Derek sorta looks like he's having a heart attack. "Derek, they've been taken."

* * *

  
They travel on foot, something Lydia's extremely happy about because the leviathan express could use some goddamn regulation testing before it's safe for regular use. The suits, combined with the uniform, almost convoy-like line they make probably makes the group look like a funeral procession.  
  
Apt, really.  
  
Stiles stumbles over a tree root and Lydia tightens her hold on his arm. The arm she hasn't let drop since Peter goddamn Hale had swaggered back into her life. Lydia's not stupid, she knows she probably looks like an overly clingy maiden at this point, but screw it. Stiles is the only friend she has available to her right now and she'll claw her own arm off rather than be left alone in this situation.  
  
On cue, Peter appears at her side, hands clasped behind his back in some parody of Victorian gentlemanliness as he walks. "Lydia, darling," he says. "You look good. What's your secret?"  
  
Lydia feels Stiles stiffen beside her and curls her arm tighter through his. "Decapitation," she answers, curtly, eyes never flickering from their path. "I find cutting the head off one's problems really unclogs the chi."  
  
Peter snorts softly, like they're exchanging light banter over a champagne breakfast. Lydia wants to scrub herself down with steel wool.  
  
"Such _fire_ , in one so young," Peter says.  
  
"Yeah, you don't have much luck with fire, do you?" Stiles says.  
  
Lydia's gaze ticks to Peter of its own accord to find his eyes flashing blue, lip curling back over teeth edging into fangs. "One day, you're going to learn to keep your mouth shut."  
  
"Dude, you're shacking up with leviathans," Stiles says, waving a hand to indicate their entourage. " _My_ mouth really isn't the one you should be worrying about."  
  
Peter hums. "Leviathans are a straight-forward bunch," he says. "A conglomerate just looking for a little, shall we say, _expansion_."  
  
Oh Jesus Christ…  
  
"So what, they help you get out of Purgatory and you find a way to prop the gates for them?" Lydia says.  
  
Peter grins, sharp. "Something like that, yes."  
  
"And are they aware that you're a lying douchebag that's really freaking likely to stab them in the back?" Stiles says, loudly.  
  
Not one leviathan looks their way and Peter laughs. "I won't deny the temptation was there. But that was before I let one of them up here," he says, tapping at his temple. His eyes turn serious then; sober in a way Lydia's never seen him. "Let's just say, there are some monsters you don't double cross."

* * *

  
They hear the portal before they see it. A great sucking whoosh of a noise that sounds like something out of Star Trek. God, Stiles really needs to get out of this alive so he can see the new Star Trek.  
  
"Ah good," Peter says, leading their party to a halt as he turns on Stiles and Lydia. "This is our station. Lydia, if you please."  
  
Peter holds out his hand to Lydia, curled invitingly. Stiles has never wanted to sever an appendage more.  
  
"No," Stiles says, stepping forward. "Take me."  
  
"Stiles," Lydia hisses, tugging on his arm.  
  
But no. Fuck that. "No, okay?" Stiles says, not breaking eye contact with Peter. "You've had creeper wolf all up in your head enough."  
  
Peter, the asshole, laughs at that. Because did Stiles mention he's an asshole?  
  
"I'm afraid your little act of sacrifice won't mean much in this case, Stiles," Peter says. "Since whoever doesn't take me, will have Matt slithering around under their skin."  
  
Oh holy _ew_. Stiles doesn't know what his face does when he looks at Matt, but it can't be pleasant considering Snake Boy answers it with a creepy-ass smirk. God, it's like the lesser of two fucknopes.  
  
"What'll it be, kids?" Peter says, having way too much fun with this whole situation.  
  
Stiles grimaces and looks back to Lydia, swallowing around the lump of bile in his throat. "Waddya think? Rock, paper, scissors?"  
  
Lydia's shuttered eyes blink from terror to exasperation in record speed and Jesus Christ, Stiles could hug her. Lydia Martin, reigning queen of his heart.  
  
Stiles feels her squeeze his hand once, hard before stepping away – stepping up to Peter. Stiles can't really say he's surprised. The devil you know, and all that.  
  
"Looks like it's you and me, Stiles," Matt says, and Stiles barely keeps from flinching away as his creepy—seriously fucking creepy, oh god Jackson had never been this bad—tail curls around Stiles' ankle.  
  
"Can't wait," Stiles says.  
  
Peter huffs a chuckle as he unsheathes Stiles' knife – the one he'd obviously stripped off Stiles post kidnapping. "Now before we get any ideas about crossing over and then exorcising us without the resurrection," Peter says, taking a clawed hold of Lydia's arm. "Remember it's not going to be just me and dear old Matt in there with you."  
  
Right. Because two of the leviathan are going to be hitching in Matt and Peter while they hitch in Stiles and Lydia. Stiles Stilinski and Lydia Martin: human turduckens.  
  
"Please, let's just get this over with so I can kill you again," Lydia says, tone biting even if the hand curled into a fist by her side is shaking.  
  
Peter sniffs, raising her wrist to the blade. "Your wish is my command."  
  
Stiles isn't really a fan of blood, particularly when it's leaking out of his friends. So when Peter presses the blade to Lydia's wrist, he looks away.  
  
Which means he doesn't catch the arrow thunking solidly into Peter's chest.  
  
Lydia yelps, windmilling backwards and it's pure freaking instinct that Stiles grabs her and pulls as the world explodes into chaos around them.

* * *

  
Derek hits the first leviathan at chest height, bearing the thing into the dirt and tearing its head off with one gory, determined rip. Laura is roaring to his right, tangling with two leviathans as Benny swings at a third at her back, taking the things legs out from under it. Allison's opted for long range, picking the monsters down with arrows so that Dean can wade in and finish them.  
  
For all they make a surprisingly good team, the leviathan outnumber them three to one. And Stiles- Derek's lost sight of Stiles.  
  
Derek snarls, clawing out one leviathan's throat as another tackles him from the side. They can't- There's too many… Derek rolls, flinging his attacker off and staggers to his feet, catching Laura's eye across the fray.  
  
He sees the split second she gets it.  
  
 _"No howling,"_ she'd said. _"You never know what you'll attract."_  
  
Laura and Derek throw their heads back and howl.

* * *

  
Stiles' head snaps up and he turns, abandoning the mad scramble to cover because he knows that howl. Knows it from weeks upon weeks of training. Scott and the others fanning out across the preserve; learning how to communicate as wolves. Learning how to recognise Pack. Stiles turns wide eyes on Lydia and yeah, she'd heard it too.  
  
"Derek," Stiles says. Then louder, "Dere- _agh!_ "  
  
The blow catches him sharp across the temple and he tumbles, landing hard across the rocks as Lydia screams above him. Stiles shakes his head, the world tilting sickly and- focus. Goddamn… Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and opens them to spots. Beyond that, though, is the vision of Peter, clawed grip harsh around Lydia's arm as he drags her back- back towards the portal.  
  
" _No..._ "

* * *

  
Allison hears Stiles before she sees him. An abruptly cut off shout that has her scanning the fight before- _there_. Stiles is staggering to his feet, stumbling up the rocky path towards the portal after- _oh holy shit._  
  
"Derek!" Allison yells, kicking herself down out of her perch. "The portal!"  
  
She doesn't know if he hears her and then very suddenly, she can't follow up on it. Because a crouched, scaled thing has dropped into her path and- _oh-_  
  
The recognition is like a punch to the gut.  
  
Matt smiles at her, teeth gone needle sharp. "Allison," he says. "Long time."  
  
Fuck. This.  
  
Allison steels herself. "Not long enough."  
  
The first arrow is knocked and loosed with a speed she can only put down to pure adrenalin. Still, Matt manages to dodge it.  
  
He doesn't dodge the knife Allison buries up under his chin.  
  
Allison twists the blade, revelling in the vicious crunch of metal through bone. The light dies sharp and satisfying in Matt's still-human eyes. "It was totally stalking, asshole."

* * *

  
Derek crouches, catching the charging leviathan with a shoulder to it's midsection before flipping it off it's feet. Teeth clash uncomfortably close to his face but Derek doesn't stop to finish the thing. Can't stop-  
  
"Derek!"  
  
He hears the warning too late, turns just in time to watch the maw of teeth descend and-  
  
The leviathan's tackled away by a roaring blur of dark skin and darker hair.  
  
 _Cavalry's here._  
  
The werewolf braces one bare, clawed foot on the leviathan's chest and tears the top half of its head off at the gaping hole where it's face ought to be. Derek would be taken aback if he weren't too busy being impressed as hell. The werewolf turns to him, eyes flashing beta gold and- she nods, head crooking slightly to the left, neck bare.  
  
Well. Shit.  
  
Derek lets his own vision wash red and nods back.  
  
His new beta catches the next leviathan around the neck. Derek turns and runs for the portal.

* * *

  
The knife drags hot and sharp over her arm, red swelling to the surface and dripping only to be sucked sideways into the portal.  
  
"Say it!" Peter's saying, screaming to be heard over the sucking chaos.  
  
Lydia braces against the artificial wind, hair whipping around her head in a wild tangle as she struggles in Peter's grip. "Go to hell!"  
  
Because no. She won't do this again. Won't have him inside her; won't be the reason Peter fucking Hale is alive and murdering again. She _won't_.  
  
"Lydia!"   
  
Oh god-  
  
Peter's too fast, letting go of her to snag the fist Stiles has aimed at his face. Lydia screams as Peter twists, curling Stiles back-first into his body, claws to his throat.  
  
"Say it or he dies!" Peter says.  
  
Lydia sways, the portal sucking at her clothes; her hair. Stiles' eyes are wide and terrified on hers. "Don't," he says. "Lydia, don't-"  
  
Peter's claws curl in, breaking skin and something cracks in Lydia when Stiles hisses.  
  
"Stop it!" she says. "I'll do it. I just- Let him go!"  
  
Peter bares his teeth, mouth stretching obscenely wide and- god, it's already- he already- "Say it and I will."  
  
Lydia closes her eyes; closes her eyes and steels herself. She knows the spell. Had learned it first from Dean, and then from Peter as they'd travelled. _I invite thee_ , it says. _Invite_. Lydia opens her eyes.  
  
Just in time to see a dark haired woman yank Peter's head back by his hair. Lydia watches as the mystery woman catches the hand around Stiles' throat, twisting it out and away so that Stiles can yank himself clear, stumbling forward and turning-  
  
"Hi Uncle Peter," the woman snarls. "Miss me?"  
  
Oh… _wow_.  
  
"Laura-"  
  
"No," Laura says—and holy crap, this is Laura Hale—fangs cutting her words sharp. " _No._ "  
  
Lydia sees the move before it happens. Sees it in the brace of muscle and the terror in Peter's eyes.  
  
Peter Hale screams as he's pitched forward into the portal. Peter Hale screams and Lydia starts breathing again.

* * *

  
The forest resonates with a crack and shudder, an unearthly wind picking up as the moon's glow flickers around them.  
  
Chris braces himself, thumbing back the safety on his Glock.  
  
Which means, when the shape falls out of the air – putrid, steaming and looking like a half-melted gargoyle he's the first to raise his gun.  
  
"Is that normal?" John says, hand on his own weapon.  
  
Sam Winchester shakes his head, looking as unsettled as Chris feels. "No, I-"  
  
The thing gurgles, raises it's head and collapses sideways. Chris puts a bullet between it's glowing blue eyes, just in case.

* * *

  
Derek snarls and swipes, only to find his claws slicing through smoke as the leviathan in front of him peaces-out. He's not the only one staggering to a halt. The whole clearing is swirling with black particles, the sudden dearth of fighting leaving behind an eerie silence, broken only by ragged breathing.  
  
The new werewolf is closest to the clearing's edge, leaning heavily on another woman Derek doesn't recognise. She's not a werewolf, Derek can tell that much, but she's obviously not human if she's here.  
  
He should be worried. Should be pulling the band together and formulating their next move. The leviathan could be back; he has no goddamn clue what's happened to Peter but-  
  
Fuck it. "Stiles!"  
  
"Holy shit."  
  
Derek spins, shoulder throbbing where one of the leviathan had tried to take a chunk out of him but he barely feels it. Because Stiles is limping towards him, gaining speed which he doesn't even bother to check, slamming full-body into Derek and- Jesus fuck, he's warm and _real_ and Derek can't-  
  
Stiles' breath is hot and wet on his neck, then it's hot and wet over his mouth. Before Derek can catch his breath—breathe Stiles in, because _god_ —Stiles is threading both his hands into Derek's hair to tug him forward into a kiss that's as messy and desperate as it is perfect. Someone makes a broken sound, Derek doesn't even know who and doesn't care- _can't_ care. Not about anything except clutching Stiles close, angling into the kiss and letting himself fall.

* * *

  
"Well," Dean says, clearing his throat. "That ah- that explains a lot."  
  
Laura snorts. "Tell me about it."  
  
"I'm giving them thirty seconds, because this shit has been building for years," Lydia says, looping arms with an exhausted looking Allison. Exhausted but grinning. Ugh, Dean could gag. "Then I'm prying them apart because I need about four goddamn showers, yesterday."

* * *

  
_"We're not friends."_  
  
 _Stiles scoffed around a mouth full of pizza, earning him a disgusted look from Derek. Not that there's much difference between that and Derek's usual face. Dude had a bitchy resting face, is all Stiles was saying._  
  
 _"Oh yeah?" Stiles said. "What do you call this then?"_  
  
 _His gesture encompassed the whole living room – what there was of it, anyway. The Hale house was in an even worse state of disrepair as the Pack worked to shore it up – tearing down the parts that couldn't be salvaged and patching holes indiscriminately. One day it'd look liveable again. Right then, it looked like swiss cheese._  
  
 _Derek leaned over and snagged one of the cans of coke from the six pack that'd been delivered along with the pizza. "I call this you inviting yourself over and stealing my food."_  
  
 _And really, Stiles would take him a lot more seriously if he weren't saying this shit while handing Stiles a freaking napkin. Or throwing it at his face. Whatever. There was napkin exchange._  
  
 _"Please," Stiles said, swiping at the streak of sauce he could feel clinging to his cheek. "Pizza was totally my idea."_  
  
 _"Because you cut the power line and fried the fridge," Derek said._  
  
 _And yeah, okay. Stiles could own that. "Which I_ accidentally _did, while trying to prop up the kitchen bench," he said. "Because I'm your_ friend _who's helping you renovate your scary, condemned house."_  
  
 _Derek grunted, because Derek was secretly a cave man._  
  
 _"What would you call us then?" Stiles said. Sue him, he was curious._  
  
 _When Derek looked up at him, it was with his usual level of bitch-face but then he blinked, mouth spasming and- okay, if Stiles didn't know him better, he'd say Derek was trying not to laugh._  
  
 _"Mutual antagonists," Derek said finally, lips curling despite what looked like his best efforts. "Who...happen to save each other's lives a lot."_  
  
 _Stiles really couldn't help it. At all. Because Derek was grinning. Full on_ human _grinning. And while it was still small, it was freaking_ real _and- crap, Stiles was not equipped to handle that at all. Whatever higher power figured a dude that looked like Derek also deserved a smile like sunshine needed to be kneecapped._  
  
 _"Why is that funny?" Stiles said, heart pounding. Because_ shut up _, okay? He could not even be slightly blamed here._  
  
 _Derek shook his head, reaching for another slice of pizza. "You have barbecue sauce on your nose."_  
  
 _Stiles' hands flew to his face, which was probably the worst thing he could have done considering they were covered in even more sauce, Jesus. Derek actually started cackling._  
  
 _"Shut up," Stiles said. "I'm never saving your ass again."_

* * *

  
Stiles breathes out, watching his breath mist in the cool night air. Everything smells clean. Clean and earthy in a way Purgatory never had. Stiles still remembers the first burst of it on his tongue as he'd fallen into the dirt of Buttfuck Nowhere National Park. Earth and green and then, when his dad had pulled him into a frantic hug, _home_.  
  
The moon is waning but still large enough to paint the forest silver and make flashlights unnecessary. Which is good. Stiles has a feeling slicing his own arm open is going to be hell on the old grip.  
  
On cue, his arm gives a jarring throb and he hisses, rolling his sleeve up to reveal the glowing scar there.  
  
 _"C'mon Derek," he'd said, eyebrows ticking up. "I want you inside me."_  
  
 _"Oh my god,_ Stiles _."_  
  
Stiles grins at the memory, uses it to distract himself from the pain as he slices himself open, light pouring from the wound as he recites the spell. He hasn't been game to look into the grave properly. See what three months in the ground have done to Derek's body. He can't help but watch the fall of his own blood though, watch the light spread over the dark shape of the corpse. And then- okay, so he'd been expecting a little more fanfare, here.  
  
Stiles blinks down at the empty grave and frowns.  
  
Then nearly has a fucking heart attack when warm arms loop around his waist from behind. It's only the smell that stops him; that unforgettable mix of leather and _Derek_.  
  
"Holy shit," Stiles says, clutching at Derek's wrist. "Warn a guy."  
  
Derek hums, burying his face in the crook of Stiles' neck, like just breathing on him is the best thing in the world right now. "You smell good."  
  
Stiles sighs, lets himself lean back into Derek's warmth and shudder in a breath of his own. "Showers are wondrous things."  
  
A breeze picks up, swirling leaves around Stiles' feet; leaving goosebumps that're smoothed away as Derek turns Stiles in his arms. "The others?"  
  
Stiles swallows, feeling about ten shades of Disney fucking princess as he flattens his palm over Derek's heart but sue him, okay? He'd lost this. This is makeup sappiness.  
  
"Lydia's at the cemetery resurrecting Laura," he says. "The Winchesters have told us if they see us again they're gonna shoot us, which I think is actually their way of being friendly."  
  
Derek snorts, covering Stiles' hand with his own. And okay, not the only sap, then.  
  
Stiles clears his throat. "Benny's heading our way as soon as Dean's dug him up –" that invitation courtesy of Laura, "– and Isaac, Scott, Boyd and Erica are running perimeters right now. We have two packs closing in on us, so if you could just…" Stiles tips his head and warbles out a horrific approximation of a howl, even to him.  
  
Derek rolls his eyes, even as they flash red and Stiles grins, feeling Derek's chest puff up under his hand before-  
  
Okay, yeah. If that doesn't scare everything within a ten mile radius off, Stiles doesn't know what will. "Wow," Stiles says, pulling at his earlobe. "That's a lot louder up close."  
  
Derek's eyes are still red when he looks back down, teeth edging sharp in the moonlight. Stiles leans forward and kisses him. Because he can _do that_ now, _fuck yeah_. The kiss stays gentle, nothing like the desperate (awesome), messy (AWESOME) make out session in Purgatory. Which is probably a good thing, considering there's no Lydia here to pry them apart.  
  
Derek breaks the kiss with a short swipe over Stiles' bottom lip that does things to the structural integrity of Stiles' knees.  
  
"What about the new recruits?" Derek says.  
  
Stiles hooks his fingers through Derek's belt loops, secretly thrilling at the way it makes Derek sway into him. "Kali and Julia?" Derek nods, breath fogging between them. "Allison and her dad are tracking down their bodies," Stiles says. "Y'know I still don't know if I'm on board with this whole insta-beta thing you have going there."  
  
Derek hums, hands sneaking into Stiles' jacket pockets and- _oh_ , shit, actually Derek's pockets. He should probably give that back at some point huh?  
  
"They helped us," Derek says. "We owe them."  
  
"We got them out of Purgatory," Stiles says. "Isn't that enough?"  
  
"They were killed by their own pack, Stiles," Derek says. "And from what they said about Deaucalion-"  
  
"Okay, yeah – I get it," Stiles says. "I just…"Stiles sighs harshly. "I don't like change."  
  
Derek snorts, pulling Stiles forward so that they're flush together. All warmth and breath and _them_. "You _love_ change."  
  
Stiles bites off a petulant noise, burying his face in Derek's _ridiculous_ chest. They're pretty much the same height these days so it's semi-awkward but _whatever_. "Not when I lose people."  
  
Derek stills against him and for a terrifying second, Stiles thinks he's gone too far. Gotten too needy too fast. But then Derek's wrapping both arms around his shoulders, bowing down over him like he can shut out the world.  
  
"You found me though," Derek says.  
  
And yeah. Stiles breaths Derek in. Yeah he did.

**Author's Note:**

> [TUUUUUUUUUMBLR](http://hatteress.tumblr.com/)


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